


Cinnamon and Gold

by Medea_Nunc_Sum, mokiwrites



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Ineffable husbands - Fandom
Genre: Collars, D/s, Dom/sub, F/M, Light BDSM, Other, Sub!Crowley - Freeform, Teasing, dom!Aziraphale, female-presenting Crowley, following orders, male-presenting aziraphale, what time era is this?, who knows honestly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 14:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20622731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medea_Nunc_Sum/pseuds/Medea_Nunc_Sum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokiwrites/pseuds/mokiwrites
Summary: Like the sky to the earth they attracted each other; a love for fragile mortality becoming a woven bridge made of clouds and rain and vapors spanning between them until it became a natural, simple,factof who they were. Angel and Demon, lovers and enemies.





	Cinnamon and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Another collab with my darling Hecate. Please do mind the tags. If even light amounts of soft BDSM make you uncomfortable, now would be the time to exit!

Brass clicking shut echoed through the room with the force of close-by thunder and softness of a whisper between silk sheets. Aziraphale’s eyes traced over Crowley’s collarbones, over Crowley’s black ink line of a jaw, over Crowley’s thin shoulders as she stood still; a serpent in waiting. All patience, hungry eyes, and skin draped in the color of fall candles. 

The room was a mosaic of reds and golds and browns. Lions bared their teeth from curved armrests, velvet cushions were stiff and unused, and the bed—softened by silk and woven cotton—waited like a hungry beast with teeth shaped like pillows and hundreds of eyes blinking and winking and watching from the wood. Pale hardwood was cold beneath large white rugs stolen from some Arctic creature, ceramic decorations cluttered the dresser, and a single mirror sat on the closet door, turned just so he could make out the interior of the marble bathroom. 

Aziraphale couldn’t stop the feather curve of his smile. Didn’t want to stop it. He turned away from the door, stripping away his suit jacket, pulling off the top hat, and placed them both, carelessly, on the cherry wood coat rack. 

“Well,” Words dripped between them; sweet like honey and sparking with the cinnamon promise of fire candies as he undid the gold angel-wing cuffs. “Didn’t find what we were looking for, but it was still a rather _ lovely _ball.”

His eyes flicked up and focused with predator intent. 

Crowley hadn’t moved; a perfect, marble statue carved in the middle of the room, replicating Grecian work if it wasn’t for the expansion of ribs, lungs filling with air she didn’t need. Auburn hair spilled over shoulders, pooling over her breasts, catching on the valley of her collar, painted across her cheeks like gentle waves from the way she had bowed her head ever so forward. She exposed the back of her neck, fragile and bare, with tiny, gold clasps nestled at the base. A crimson velvet choker—no. No, here it was a _ Collar— _pressed against pale skin like a threat. 

Or a _ promise_. 

Even like this—willing and open, breathless and malleable—Crowley was dangerous. There was something powerful about her presence. Something terrifying. Still and serene or the raging thunder of a storm that always put Aziraphale at risk of drowning. 

(Maybe he already had long ago. Maybe he was chained to the bottom of a trench, learning how to breathe through sharp cut gills, eyes adjusting to see in the depths.)

Aziraphale resisted the temptation to reach around, drag his fingers along the skin, and play with that clasp before undoing it. It would look best where it sat and patience was, after all, a virtue.

The smell from the ball wafted up into the room, clinging to their skin and the walls like cotton candy. Meats cooked by skilled hands, drinks that loosened stiff tongues, and the sweetness of desserts that couldn’t compare to the delicacy that waited for him in their room. 

Working on rolling up one sleeve, Aziraphale walked around Crowley. He admired the swell of her hips, the line of her spine, the freckles scattered like mortal constellations. Soft orders, spoken against the soft curve of an ear still clung to his tongue. They had tasted sweet and heavy—a sugary cream topped on pie and cakes—that now stood, to life, before him. 

Crowley had left the ball first and now stood bare except for the velvet with its delicate gold chains draping over slim bones, connecting to a wide, center ring Aziraphale could fit his finger through should he desire. Metal snaked down, down, _ down _ over the line of her sternum, ending in small, red crystal beads. A separate set plunged even further between her breasts, breaking off into branches to connect to pierced, pebbled nipples, and looped like a lazy python around a thin waist. 

Hands clasped over her pelvis, bright yellow eyes trained on bare feet.

The encyclopedia definition of _ obedience. _

Looking away, but still focused on her out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale started on the other sleeve. “And you, my dear, were _extraordinary,_” he said, drawing out the words in lazy, open circles as if they were ribbons dragging across the ground.

The grin widened into something that oozed of crocodile hunger as Crowley swallowed, shoulders tensing, trying to keep herself from shuddering beneath his spread words. 

Aziraphale pretended he hadn’t seen; working at the tartan ascot around his throat, nails picking at the knot before slipping beneath, loosening the fabric with practiced ease. It whispered a soft sigh as it came undone and silk slid against the back of his neck, pulled from beneath the collar. He ran his thumb over the pattern; tracing blue and beige and white. There was half a thought in the back of his mind—some part of him tempted to ball it up and discard it. The other...

His eyes flickered back and forth between the fabric and Crowley, mischief blooming in his gaze. Closing the distance between them with two steps, Aziraphale heard a deep inhale, watched her breasts rise and still, holding there as the lungs refused to let the oxygen go. She bowed her head without being asked, fingers brushing dark hair from her face, over her ears and shoulders. He pulled a soft exhale from her lips as careful hands wrapped the tartan-patterned silk around her eyes. Her shoulders relaxed, drooping the moment he finished tying it into a bow at the back of her head.

“Did you enjoy yourself, _ ma trésor? _ ” Aziraphale’s voice was hushed, flubbing over foreign words with playfulness that only belonged between them. He knew the answer—of _ course _ he knew—but he wanted to _ hear _ it. 

Dark hair couldn’t hide the small, amused smile blossoming on Crowley’s face. Words fell between them like water released from a dam. “Yes, Aziraphale.” 

Hands pulled away from the knot with a satisfied hum, fingers combing through hair before one rested on a shoulder. The other glided along her jaw, gentle as a brushstroke, as if he was painting her into being and admiring the masterpiece left behind. 

Taking her chin between his thumb and index finger, Aziraphale tilted her head up towards his face and admired the pink flush of cheeks as it contrasted with berry blue and pale brown. “Good,” he leaned in, lips hovering above hers, close enough that he could steal the air from her lungs if he inhaled just _so_. “I knew you would. I always know what’s best for you, don’t I?”

“Yes, Aziraphale, you do,” her weight tilted forward, pulled back. Their lips didn’t touch. _Good._ “Always.”

His hum vibrated through their souls, playing heartstrings like they were strung tight upon a guitar. Fingers traced up a delicate chain, dragging it across her skin, playing with the hoop. “That’s right,” Aziraphale breathed across her cheek, words hovering over her skin, lips curling into a smirk as her soft gasp fell between them. 

One of his hands held the chain taut. Honey light glistened between his knuckles and her chest like spider-silk. 

Another tug. A moan dripped from parted lips with the maple sweetness of syrup. Once strong knees followed it; fumbling. Something sweet and heavy alighted in her belly, burned its way down nerve-endings until even her thighs tingled. Nails traced gold links, counting them one by one as they worked their way down. When they ran out of metal, they spread out across the expanse of her stomach, palm brushing over jumping, twitching muscles.

Crowley’s lips parted, Aziraphale thought about taking the bottom one between his teeth as his hand continued downwards. She whimpered, his hand so close—so _close_—

Two fingers slid teasingly between folds, dipping with such a bold, brazen daring that never needed to be spoken. 

Breath froze in trembling lungs.

“So wet for me already?” Lips pressed, chastely, to the corner of dark lipstick, stubble grazing her chin. “I’m flattered. But—” Another kiss, this time—_finally— _to her lips, still so light it was more of a taunt. Aziraphale’s hand slipped away, wiping slick in jagged lines across her belly. “—We aren’t there yet,” he said, breath hot against her cheek, warming the silk around her eyes. “Can you be patient, my darling Crowley?”

“Yes.” Her reply was immediate; starving with want. “Yes, Aziraphale. I can.”

He pulled away, chuckling as she whined, lurching forward to follow the contact. Aziraphale hooked a finger into the loop against her sternum and pulled, leading her across the room. 

Crowley’s steps never faulted, never hesitated. She never tried to peek beneath the silk or sneak a glance to where she was being led. Just followed. It was a trust that made some salt flower bloom within the cage of Aziraphale’s ribs—soft and harsh, warm and aching. The sight of her was a mix of oils and water, a portrait hung in the bedroom for his eyes only. 

Her feet sunk into the plush rug, squeaked against hardwood. The rise and fall of her chest turned the gold chains into something abstract and false that was more real than everything else in the room. Even then, however, there was no way to describe her. Should anyone ask; Crowley was the spark that burned a forest down, a barking dog in the middle of a sun-lit park. She was late night talk of broken windows and the juice of a peach dripping down a chin in the winter. 

He would tell them that gold was still gold, even if it was blackened. That love was not a state of being but a house that encompassed the whole of the world.

He would tell them he was everywhere, except apart from her. 

Air rushed out of cushions as Aziraphale sank down into one of the unused armchairs. Wood creaked from disuse, groaning with the act of existing. He spared a quick glance to the side table, pleased to see the wooden box that he’d paid a steward to deliver had been placed where he had instructed. He tugged Crowley closer, wedged a knee between her thighs to edge them apart. They went willingly, straddling his lap like a Priestess of Aphrodite upon an altar.

A gasp tumbled from between glistening lips, hushed and shy, as she settled down against the hard ridge straining against his trousers. Her skin was warm enough that he could feel her heat through the fabric and Aziraphale used every single slim strand of willpower to keep from _ grinding_. 

Aziraphale laid his palms on her hips, focusing on pressing his thumbs into ticklish dips. She giggled, laughed, moaned, body pressing for blessed friction even as she tried—half-heartedly—to escape.

“Tell me, my dear,” He said as his hands slid down her hips, over her thighs, then back up and over her ass to lift her, taking away the slight pressure she’d gained. Her head fell back, silk stretched across her cheeks, smoothed over her cheekbones.

Aziraphale lowered her back down once more, one hand trailing up her side, across the underside of her ribs, and following her sternum back up to the small, gold ring, playing with it before going up even farther, tracing crimson beads and tiny links of gold. “How did it feel to wear _this,_” he hooked his finger into the halo of the Collar, giving it a gentle tug. “Where everyone could see it?”

She swallowed.

He watched the line of her throat and wanted to smear the graphite lines of its existence with the sharp edge of his teeth and the softness of his lips. 

“Good,” Crowley said, turning her head towards his voice. Dug her teeth into her bottom lip.

Aziraphale wondered if she could see the pulsing yellow heat of his body; the blazing reds, the consuming orange. A wildfire ready and waiting to consume her.

She shifted, dragging herself against him and trembled, gasped, breathed in. “It was good, it was—”

Aziraphale trailed his open mouth across her chest, littering kisses over her freckles, tracing stories into the constellations left on her skin. Here was a fox, here was a snake, a swan, a collar with a chain. The stubble on his cheeks rubbed against the smooth flesh of her breasts, leaving pink between and across and around. He kissed along the skin, soothing the burn he’d left behind. 

Shuddering, Crowley’s head dropped, hair falling around her face, blanketing them in soft, tangled curtains. Aziraphale hummed, sucked on a freckle between her breasts, and followed the Ursa Major trail up to metal and sensitive skin.

His teeth caught on the piercing, tongue dragging over gold. 

“_Oh,_” the bones in her spine twisted in a serpentine movement, pressing and pulling away in the same motion. The flat of his palm pressed against the small of her back, keeping her still, keeping her _ there _ and _ his. _

“Crowley, you’ve trailed off,” Aziraphale smiled against her skin, already glistening from the strokes of his tongue. His tone oozed with a playful coyote sort of mischief; the kind that came from _knowing._ He felt her hum lift through her rib cage, vibrate beneath his kiss. A faint wonder existed on the fading trail of his thoughts of what she would look like if they turned off all the lights and her body spread beneath the dark.

How beautiful she would be beneath the moon’s spotlight and the stars’ curious gazes. 

“I,” Crowley tried, breath hitching around a groan that rose from the deep ocean of her body. The silk pressed taunt against her cheeks, stretched over the bridge of her nose. It hadn’t ridden up with some faint earthly miracle. “I—” 

“Yes?” Aziraphale breathed the word so heavily against the side of her breast he wondered if it would be tattooed there. He pressed his lips to another freckle, dug the tips of his nails into her skin. 

Sometimes Crowley was like a wildfire; blazing, burning, consuming the world around her with vicious hunger that ate up everything and left brackish, desolate earth behind. Not destroyed, not vanquished, but the grounds for growth and a chance for new beginnings. Other times she was the ocean; expansive, dark, a deep encompassing abyss that took and gave in the same movement, a clashing of everything and nothing in perfect harmony. A song of life, a song of storms.

A song of chaos birthed of curiosity and wildness that _allowed _him to sooth the breaking, crashing waves with crimson velvet, decorated leather, and polished gold. 

Dark hair brushed across his brow as she bowed her head, a sigh fluttering through her voice. “_Please _?”

Aziraphale lowered her down, muffling the hungry, aching groan that lifted into the base of his throat as her heat settled against his thighs; put pressure on all the right places. Black trousers grew damp and he caught the movement of her hips, holding them still before she could sneak away any friction. “‘Please’?” He grinned against her skin, delighted as the dampness spread across the cotton. “‘Please’ what?”

Crowley didn’t move her palms from her thighs, holding still and not touching. Her fingers dug in, knuckles bleached white. 

So very, very good for him. 

Maybe good enough to deserve a _reward._

“What do you want, _ ma trésor _?” Aziraphale's voice dropped, dripping with husk and something dark with promise. He wanted to be the lightning to her tree; wanted to start that fire where no one else could witness, wanted to see her become a force of great life and bright destruction. His fingers tightened, pushing her hips down while his rose to greet her like lava to the ocean, the forest to the sky. 

“You,” Crowley gasped, leaning forward so the small, gold chain caught on brass buttons. The delicate metal trembled between them. “I want _ you_.”

Despite everything, Aziraphale couldn’t stop the way his features softened, the way his grin turned into something feather gentle and warm like a hearth. “I know,” he said, rubbing his palm up her side, “and you’ll always have me.” His lips pressed up her sternum, teeth nipping at the dip between her collar bones. “_Forever_.”

A hefty promise. Crowley’s breath hitched. 

“But there must be something _ else. _ Something you want more than _anything,_ right now.”

“Yes,” Bubbling, breathless, formless words tumbled from her lips. “_Yes,_ Aziraphale.” 

He nipped at the bottom of the Collar. “_Tell me_.”

Crowley almost fell forward and lurched back at the last second, straightening with practiced care. “_You,_ Aziraphale.” The repetition clung to her lips, dripped like honey. “I want you inside me. Taking me, _ claiming _me—”

Wide hands slid to the bottom of her hips, fingers spreading over the tops of her thighs and Aziraphale guided her with the utmost of care into a sluggish grind. The hill of cotton that covered a jagged, copper zipper dragged against Crowley’s sensitive heat and she gasped, wordless, above him. Her wetness clung to a brass button and she arched in his grip, pushing back like the tide against a beach.

If it was equal torture for Aziraphale, he refused to show it. Blue and beige silk was still wrapped around Crowley’s eyes, but it was the idea of it; the control of it all. Through dark lashes he noted the plumpness of her lips, the redness in her cheeks, the way her flush had crawled down her neck. A jackrabbit pulse jumped against the snug fit of velvet, chains clinking like the notes of a piano between each trembling chorus of breath. 

Crowley could have avoided it all; there was no need for her form to respond, no need for it to be lost in the cradle of mortality. But she did. She _ liked _it.

They had found that place, together, that brought out the soul in them, the love in them.

The _ human _in them. 

Like the sky to the earth they attracted each other; a love for fragile mortality becoming a woven bridge made of clouds and rain and vapors spanning between them until it became a natural, _ fact _ of who they were. Angel and Demon, lovers and enemies. Soft like clay beneath each other’s hands and words and thoughts.


End file.
